73 Years Old and Delivering Food
No, not me. Not yet.
The buzzer to my apartment gave off its deafening fire alarm roar and I answered with my usual chipper “Hello?” I always want the people who deliver stuff to me to know that I appreciate them. A lot. Someone even more chipper let me know that my sushi had arrived.
When I opened the door a tiny woman handed me my food, and we started chatting. Well, she started chatting and I followed her lead. I don’t like to be rude without a good reason. We’ve been having a heat wave here in Seattle — over 90 degrees is hot for us, particularly since there isn’t a lot of AC in this city, so I asked if she was staying cool.
“Oh yes,” she informed me. She kept her car AC cranked and parked in the shade when she could. Then she said, “I’m 73 years old, born and raised around here, and I don’t ever remember it being this hot so often, every year!” Well, neither can I and I’m nearly 60, and I probably said so on autopilot. Probably we chatted briefly about climate change, but I don’t remember. I couldn’t get over her age.
Nothing wrong with being in your 70s, working at a job, even if it’s part time. Everyone has their reasons. But she’s now the 3rd woman I know in her 70s who isn’t enjoying a leisurely retirement, and contemplating my own near future, I get it.
